Terrible Swift Sword
by cwby30
Summary: A man in black wreaks vengeance on those who attacked Jack.


Terrible Swift Sword

In the corner of the bar stood a jukebox. In the opposite corner, a table with four chairs. Normally the same three men sat at that table every Friday night about that time, talking whatever shit talk they wanted, knocking back longnecks, raising one in a salute to good friends, nodding a head to acquaintances, barely acknowledging the others that caught the eye. Most folks steered clear of that table and the men sitting there, both inside and outside of the bar.

Not this night, though. This night only one of them sat at the table, lifting longneck after longneck to his lips with his left hand, occasionally releasing it to toy with a cigarette, while his right hand aimlessly drew circles on the formica. Only the most observant could see the slight tremble in his hands, the uncertain look in his eye. Only the regulars counted the empties and knew he'd had a few more than usual.

Around ten one of the barely acknowledged sauntered over and stood before the table.

"Stan," he opened, which earned a slight nod of the head in return. "Guess you heard, huh?" Which earned another slight nod of the head. "Damn strange, both of them dyin the same way, the same night." Which earned a hard stare, but with a flicker of self-doubt mixed with something akin to fear. "Damn strange. Wanta join us?" The barely acknowledge gestured towards another table. Which earned a terse shake of the head. "Well, okay then. Um. See ya." And he left.

So did Stan, soon as he finished the one in his hand. Stooping to pick up the keys that his fingers had fumbled attempting to find the lock in his truck door, he felt light-headed for a moment and had to lean against the door.

At Dunston crossroads he swore at the County Public Works Department for closing the straight way to his place, swore at Mike and Gus for getting themselves dead, swore at life in general, before turning left towards the old road that cut through the Gunderson spread.

A mile down the way he turned right onto the old road. Even though it was shorter to get home, he had avoided driving this way for months since… since… Only a few hundred yards in he started to sweat and once again his brain betrayed him. The kaleidoscope ran through his head, that late afternoon, just around dusk, that truck, just about here… A deer suddenly in his headlights on his left brought him back to the here and now just in time to swerve to his right into the drainage ditch.

When he came to, he felt pain from his forehead to his chest, felt something warm on his face, ran his hand through it, and stared at the red liquid covering his hand, stared at the crazed glass of the windshield circling out from the red-starred center made by his forehead, stared at the red liquid on the steering wheel. And felt the bile rising from his innards.

The truck remained upright, lights on, engine off, still facing down road but tilted to the right. He slid across the bench seat and fell into the ditch soon as he unlatched the door. After crawling up the other side of the ditch near the barbed-wire fence, he puked up everything in his stomach, then fell sideways onto his back, spread-eagled, staring up at the starry night sky, exhausted. But liquid pooling in the back of his throat made him gag. With effort he turned his shoulders slightly to his right and coughed up blood. And he shivered, not from the chill of the November night air, but from awareness of being at the exact same spot, seeing and hearing that same sound, when…

The sound of horsehooves drew his eyes to the right, and in the headlights' beams he saw a horse and rider approaching from the other side of the road. The rider stopped on the far side of the tilted truck, dismounted, and walked around the back of the truck. He watched the walking rider approach, moving his head right to left to keep him in sight, which made him nauseous again. He struggled to sit upright but failed, not having the strength, falling backwards against the dying grasses, feeling the liquid pooling again in the back of his throat as he coughed.

The walking rider stopped within arm's length. His eyes swept upwards, taking in the dusty black tooled-leather boots topped by black jeans, lingering an extra second on the silver belt buckle overlaid with a gold bull, flickering across the black duster, blue shirt and black hat, resting on the face half-lit from the glow of the headlights and the overhead light in the cab of the truck. He recoiled from the scarred face, but became mesmerized by the steady gaze of blue eyes staring back at him. His own eyes widened.

"You! But…"

He again struggled to get upright, but the pressure of a black tooled-leather boot on his chest kept him firmly pressed into the dirt. It was then he noticed the black gloves holding a long piece of dark angled metal. He grabbed the boot, but couldn't dislodge it. He grabbed for breath, but couldn't catch it. As the stars slowly faded, a rough voice whispered, "Now ya know how it felt."

And shortly thereafter Stan saw, heard and felt nothing more.

#######

A manicured hand lifted the receiver of the white-enameled French-style telephone.

"Hello?"

"It's finished." And the line went dead.

She hung up the phone, and lit another cigarette with the sterling silver lighter that matched the sterling silver and crystal ashtray on the table next to the sofa, then settled back, alone with her thoughts, her cigarette and her whiskey.

######

In Liberal, Kansas Abe and Millie Taylor had to replace one of the life-sized deer that had adorned their front lawn for nigh onto ten years.

In Dumas, Texas the county road crew picked up a stray road-closed sign.

In landfills outside of Dalhart, Texas and Trinidad, Colorado a black tooled-leather cowboy boot rotted away amongst the other detritus of country and urban living.

######

Three deaths in two days. The investigating officers found the same things at all three scenes. A truck angled off the road into a ditch, a body of a white male in his thirties with a mangled face who drowned in his own blood, a tire iron with no fingerprints, and boot prints not made by the boots of the dead man. Each reminded them of another case, four months earlier, but they could find no connection to it.

All three cases remained unsolved.

######

"Good evening, this is Stella Waters with the six o'clock edition of your Saturday Weekend News.

"In a surprising development, Lureen Newsome Twist informed County Sheriff Ben Todd late yesterday that her husband, Jack Twist, believed killed in July of this year, had been found alive in a hospital in Clarendon and was now recovering at an undisclosed location.

"In a prepared statement, Sheriff Todd confirmed only that Mr. Twist was alive, and that his office was reopening its investigation of the circumstances of Mr. Twist's accident and injuries.

"Clarendon is approximately 40 miles from where officers had found Mr. Twist's damaged pick-up truck and a body then-identified as his.

"Hospital officials there confirmed to Weekend News that Mr. Twist had been a patient for several months but was no longer at the hospital, and that he had no identification when brought to the emergency room late at night last July by a person described only as being in his seventies wearing nondescript clothing typical of ranchhands in the area, and who left without giving his name or address.

"Hospital officials further confirmed that Mr. Twist had suffered several broken bones and severe head injuries, requiring multiple surgeries, had only recently emerged from a coma, and had checked out sometime last week. Hospital officials referred all inquiries about Mr. Twist's current location to Mrs. Twist.

"Mrs. Twist is the daughter of Fayette Farnsworth Newsom and the late L. D. Newsome, and is the owner of Newsome Farm Equipment. A message on her telephone answering machine referred all inquiries to her attorney, who could not be reached for comment.

"In other news…"

######

Pulling into the ranch at sunset, he stopped first near the stables. After seeing to his horse and tack, he unhitched the trailer and moved his truck under the new carport attached to the garage near the house. He pulled a bundle from the truck, and walked straight to the burn barrel behind the garage. A little gasoline from the battered can in the storage closet attached to the garage got the fire going good and hot, the flames casting dancing shadows on the garage and house. One by one he dropped things into the barrel, black jeans, blue shirt, black hat, black duster, each sending sparks spiraling upwards into the darkening sky. His fingers played along the lines of the clear mask with scars etched into it, before committing it to the flames. He kept only a belt buckle given as a prize for a winning ride decades before.

When the flames died down, he added a few pieces of stray wood, then turned his back on that chapter of his life.

Inside the kitchen, he shook hands with the old man, gently kissed the old woman on the check, and briefly hugged the young man. The old man asked, "Well?", to which he replied, "Yeah," to which the old man nodded and added, "Eye for an eye."

The old woman quoted without conviction, "But vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."

"Well, sometimes the Lord needs a helping hand," came the uncompromising response from the young man.

He declined a cup of coffee and a piece of cake, instead stumbling weary in body and soul up the stairs. He didn't need a pit-stop, had done that only a few hours ago at a roadside rest stop. He needed sleep.

He lingered at the open closet door, feeling the cloth of the two shirts, blue protected by plaid, then sat on the edge of the bed. He placed the belt buckle upright against the base of the lamp on the table next to the bed, and pulled off one boot, then the other, dropping each carelessly on the floor. Not bothering to undress, he fell sideways onto the bed, head landing on his pillow, and pulled his legs onto the welcoming mattress. His thoughts ran through the events of the last 96 hours. Plans laid, long drives made, deeds done. Now they could all rest in peace.

Before he drifted off, an arm circled around his waist from behind. "Hey."

He turned to lie on his right side without breaking the circle and smiled, some of his weariness forgotten. "Hey yourself."

"You okay?" Fingers brushed way some loose strands of golden curls from half-closed amber eyes, then returned to encircle him.

"Yeah." He reached out his left hand to caress the scar running from temple to cheek. "Never gonna leave ya again."

"Me neither."

"Got something for ya." He reached into the front left pocket of his jeans, pulled out a small case and offered it.

"Thanks." Accepting the case with the blue-tinted contact lenses and putting it on the table next to his side of their bed, he then repeated "Thanks", this time conveying a meaning far greater than the return of the lenses. He leaned in to kiss the now closed eyelids and chapped lips only inches away. "I love you, Ennis del Mar."

"Jack, I swear…"

The End


End file.
